


Mating Habits of the Redwing Thrush

by rallamajoop



Series: drozd-belobrovik [3]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, First Meetings, First Time, M/M, Pre-Canon, THRUSH!Illya
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-10
Updated: 2018-01-10
Packaged: 2019-03-03 02:49:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13331904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rallamajoop/pseuds/rallamajoop
Summary: Napoleon relaxes. This man hasn't been trying to trick him into blowing his cover, he's beenflirtingwith him.This, he can work with.





	Mating Habits of the Redwing Thrush

**Author's Note:**

> Just for variety: have a prequel, set right back at the beginning for Napoleon and Illya's relationship in this AU. (If you've not read [the other stories already](https://archiveofourown.org/series/404244), you may want to read all the tags up top for a better idea of what you're getting into.)
> 
> Many thanks to [LeetheT](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeetheT/pseuds/LeetheT) for betaing.

By this time tomorrow, the Van Essens will surely be counting their party a grand success. Though the gathering is certainly too large to be considered intimate, it is just small enough to project _exclusivity_ , and the guests know it well. The room hums with an aura of self-congratulation nearing pantomime proportions, as an audience of magnates and society wives comment breezily on the exotic ingredients that have gone into the making of the canapés, the exorbitant price per bottle paid in supplying the wine, or the impressive credentials of the pianist. To Napoleon's left, a young bottle-blonde actress (whom Napoleon faintly recognises from a hand-cream commercial from the previous year) is waltzing with the latest in a series of older men to have asked her to dance tonight, who seems intent on convincing her he, personally, is much richer and more desirable than the much-older-man upon whose arm she'd arrived. To Napoleon's right, Miss Pembroke, having long since cruelly abandoned her own date, is in the midst of sharing an extended anecdote about her most recent trip to Paris with a rapt audience that includes Mrs Van Essen herself.

Everywhere, there are murmurs of speculation as to the true nature of the fortuitous financial event the Van Essens have called this party to celebrate—a rumour of which everyone seems to have heard, but of which none know the details. Though the family themselves have politely dismissed the most direct inquiries, a careful observer might catch their smiles infinitesimally broadening each time some new whisper of speculation reaches their ears.

Napoleon stares glumly into the bottom of his Martini glass, and wonders where it all went wrong.

In the past hour, he's struck out (and struck out badly) in his best attempts to charm Mr. Van Essen's wife, his daughter, and even his secretary. To convince _someone_ in the Van Essens' party to give him a quick tour around their lovely home ought not to have been any challenge for Section II's most promising young agent, and yet here he is, reduced to playing the wallflower in what ought to be his natural habitat. The only person in the Van Essens' family or staff who's paid the least attention to Napoleon in the last half hour is a dour-looking fellow he doesn't immediately recognise from his briefing packet—one who projects the distinct persona of security personnel wrapped in a nice suit. Napoleon is on the verge of concluding he'd been made before he ever walked in through the door.

He'd actually thought he was prepared for this. The job is boilerplate intelligence gathering—were it not for the urgency, the entire assignment would be classic Section III work. Napoleon's briefing had provided a detailed profile of the Van Essen family, outlining compelling evidence that their recent 'fortuitous event' involved the signing of a lucrative new supply contract—of a sort unlikely ever to be reported to the taxman. More concerning still is the evidence that the Van Essens have spent a considerable portion of the proceeds upgrading several features of their (already legendary) security system—the work to be completed within days of a major THRUSH conference, for which the UNCLE's intelligence divisions have identified a definite date, but no location. There is, to put it bluntly, a small but disturbingly plausible chance that Mr. Van Essen himself is so deep in THRUSH that he might soon be set to play host to many of the highest-ranked figures of THRUSH Central. But without _proof_ , the intelligence divisions can do little more than speculate, and to get proof—security or no security—UNCLE first needed to get someone inside.

Napoleon has also come prepared with an impeccably constructed cover identity, a scripted excuse to request a tour of the grounds, and enough facts about the life and career of the late architect Charles Stenoworth to fool all but the most seasoned professional of the same field (including an exceedingly dry spiel on the precise significance of the ratios of the internal dimensions of a room to the architectural school of Palladian ideals, guaranteed to put off anyone whose interest in the subject risks exceeding Napoleon's actual knowledge). He's yet to find the chance to use a single word of it.

It is a fact universally acknowledged that even the best agents have their off-days, and none among UNCLE's finest are wholly immune to the whims of luck and fate. One botched assignment would hardly be a career-ending disaster for a man of Napoleon's (short, but expanding) record, and the night is certainly too young to declare it a complete wash just yet. But with a solid hour's worth of watching and pondering his remaining options behind him, Napoleon feels no closer to the moment of genius he'd need to get this assignment back on track than he's ever been. Even Miss Pembroke has long since given up any hope of ingratiating him to their hosts, and Napoleon has no other allies. Over the last fifteen minutes or so, he's glumly begun to wonder if the time has come to reconsider a career in banking, perhaps, or maybe advertising.

Napoleon is halfway to deciding to blow it all and try his luck with the actress (the one soul in the room who seems nearly as lost here as he) when he realises that his watcher from the Van Essens' party is moving his way. Napoleon takes quick note of the man's expression, casual pace and the drink in his hand—all of which bode well for the tone of this confrontation—but steals himself internally even as he puts on his friendliest face. It's not too late for this evening to get a lot worse for him either.

"You know," says the man, arriving at Napoleon's side, "I thought I was familiar with every guest here tonight, but you escape me." He speaks with a faint accent, more English than American, though not English enough for it to be his first language. _German_ , Napoleon guesses. At a couple of inches beneath Napoleon's height, he doesn't strike a particularly imposing figure. His suit reveals nothing of the build beneath it—if anything, it hangs slightly loose on his frame, the fit adequate, but not tailored. If he does represent security, he's no thug. Napoleon might prefer a thug, given the choice. This man's countenance admits to nothing.

Napoleon gives him the warmest smile he can muster and holds out a hand. "Well, we can soon fix that. Edgar Ramone, at your service."

"Stephan Schneider at yours," the man replies, giving Napoleon's hand a loose and rather perfunctory shake.

Napoleon places a mental tick next to 'German,' and offers, "Miss Pembroke was good enough to invite me as her guest tonight."

"Yes, I recall seeing you arrive," says 'Schneider', giving Napoleon a long and appraising sort of look. "But if you'll pardon me for saying so, you don't entirely strike me as her... type." The way his eyes run down Napoleon's figure suggest that he, too, is being sized up. Whether as a threat, a troublemaker, a fellow professional, or simply a curiosity at a very boring party remains uncertain.

Napoleon raises his eyebrows in mock offence. "I hope you're not casting aspersions on my good friend's prospects." At the age of 54, having been independently wealthy for the entirety of her adult life, Miss Pembroke has almost certainly turned down suitors far more attractive than Napoleon in her years.

"Not at all," Schneider assures him, appearing to take the statement with its intended humour, "Were there a man alive capable of attracting Amelia Pembroke's interest, I daresay she would have married him years ago. I presume there's some other story behind your acquaintance."

_Of course_ , thinks Napoleon, _tell me your cover story, so that I may decide whether I believe it._ But as long as there's any chance Napoleon's new friend has the means to get him where he needs, playing wholly innocent is no option.

"A short one, I'm afraid," Napoleon fishes a card from his pocket and reminds himself not to get ahead of himself, now that the opportunity for his cover story has been provided at last. "I'm an architect by trade. Amelia was good enough to invite me along as her guest this evening after I expressed some professional curiosity about the Van Essens' fine home. I don't know if you'd be familiar with career of the late Charles Stenoworth—I think most in the business nowadays regard his work as a bit of a footnote to the greater neo-Palladian movement—but this so happens to be one of his last designs. You, ah, you can see his style quite clearly in the layout—adapting the pedimented portico to a scale that wouldn't overwhelm the approach of a mansion of this size was something of his signature." "Ah?" An astute listener would find very little suggesting interest in Schneider's tone.

"I was rather hoping I might be able to convince one of the family to give me a tour of the interior," Napoleon presses on. "Unfortunately, I seem to have got off on the wrong foot with the family themselves."

"Ah, yes. You attempted to compliment Mrs. Van Essen on her fine champagne rosebushes, I believe," says Schneider. He tilts his head slightly at Napoleon's look. "Forgive me, I was positioned such that overhearing was avoidable."

"Was that a mistake?" asks Napoleon, though the question in his head is, _Which is more important_ — _that you were eavesdropping, or that you're willing to admit to it?_

The sly smile on Schneider's lips promises that Napoleon doesn't know the half of it. "You weren't to know, but young Mr. Frederick Van Essen was caught _in flagrante_ behind those same rosebushes with one of the maids a week ago last Tuesday. Mrs. Van Essen is not quick to forgive, and would not appreciate the reminder. When she is displeased, she will make sure it is contagious."

Napoleon winces. "Ah." That _would_ explain his chilly reception. Assuming, that is, that anything this man tells him can be trusted. "Do you have some... similarly emasculating tale of how I managed to offend _Miss_ Van Essen as well?"

Schneider shrugs. "None that carried to where I was standing, but you might be surprised how quickly her mother can make her opinion known to the rest of the family."

Napoleon looks ruefully down at his shoes. Schneider may not be laughing aloud at him, but there's no missing how much he's enjoying this. "And here I thought you were being friendly when you came over to talk to me."

Schneider sips his drink and looks at Napoleon through his eyelashes. "How much duller the world would be, if we all made new friends the same way," he offers, cryptically, perhaps quoting something that eludes his listener.

Napoleon shakes himself and makes an attempt to get the conversation back on track. "Are you attached to the family yourself?"

"Professionally, not personally." Schneider's airy tone suggests no great personal loyalty to that cause. "I have the honour of acting as one of Mr. Van Essen's aides."

The faint hint of disdain in that last statement rings very promising to Napoleon's ears. "Oh? Well, now that the damage is done, any other scandalous insider stories you'd care to share? I've heard some _very_ interesting rumours about the story behind this party, for example."

"Reveal my employer's secrets, to a stranger?" Schneider raises an eyebrow and treats Napoleon to another of his sly smiles. "A little early in the evening for that sort of thing, don't you think? And if we're trading gossip, surely it's your turn. Tell me, have you known Miss Pembroke long?"

That non-sequitur is more than Napoleon can immediately interpret. "Hm? Oh, not long—a matter of months, it would be now. A mutual friend was good enough to introduce us; Amelia's been thinking of remodelling her east wing, you see. She's not the sort to allow a man she wouldn't invite to a party to advise her on how to remodel her ancestral home."

"Really. One does hear intriguing things about Miss Pembroke's parties. She has quite the reputation as a host—I understand she has a preference for the more... private affair. Though perhaps the events themselves wouldn't be to everyone's tastes. Have you been to very many?"

Napoleon feels himself frown. "I'm starting to think you're insinuating something I might not like."

"Am I?" says Schneider. "Perhaps I'm angling for an invitation."

Napoleon gives him a thin smile. "I suppose that would be one way to find out which of your rumours are true."

Schneider merely shrugs. "Perhaps I and your friend have more in common than you realise."

A slow-growing suspicion that there's some subtext to this is rapidly ripening in the back of Napoleon's mind. That this man means to imply something unsavoury about Miss Pembroke—and Napoleon by association—is obvious, and the undercurrent has been there ever since that crack about Miss Pembroke's unmarried status.

Had there been anything to that effect in her dossier? Napoleon had given it only a cursory read—the documents on the Van Essen family had taken precedence, given the limited time available. From the outside, Amelia Pembroke appeared to have led a studiously respectable—if fairly private—life. She had come to this job on the personal recommendation of a friend of Waverly himself, who had made the introductions. Miss Pembroke had received the n that her old friends the Van Essens might be involved in some sinister criminal enterprise with impeccable grace and only modest surprise, being plainly a woman who had spent too many years enjoying the society of the obscenely wealthy to be scandalised by new tales of excess. She'd offered little opinion on Napoleon's plan beyond the sentiment, "well, I suppose you must try." Napoleon had liked her almost immediately, and not revised his opinion since.

Any unmarried woman of her age would inevitably attract gossip, but the worst scandal in all her history was... _ah._ It had involved a contest to her parents' will on the event of their death by an estranged cousin, whose laughably anaemic case had included accusations of 'sexual immorality, perversion and lesbianism' on the part of the rightful heir—all swiftly dismissed as slander by the judge. There'd been nothing else in all the dossier to lend credence to her cousin's accusations, and Napoleon had thought no more about it, at least until now.

Of course, whoever compiled her dossier would hardly have lingered over any salacious rumours about a woman who came recommended by a friend of Mr. Waverly himself. But if Miss Pembroke's cousin _had_ , even by accident, hit on some element of the truth—if Miss Pembroke's unmarried status owes even a little to a preference for her own sex—then the conversation Napoleon has just had begins to make sense.

If Miss Pembroke was known for currying a private circle of like-minded individuals—perhaps even those of both sexes—then it wasn't unreasonable that someone who knew her reputation might wonder if the strange young man accompanying her was a member of that circle. And if that someone decided he himself found Napoleon attractive—attractive enough to study discretely from across the room—he might just decide to try his luck.

Internally, Napoleon relaxes. This explains why Schneider had been him watching from across the room, the veiled questions about Napoleon's connection to Miss Pembroke—everything. His new friend hasn't been trying to trap him into exposing himself—or at least not as a spy—he's been _flirting_.

Now, _this_ Napoleon can work with.

Napoleon clears his throat, choosing his words carefully, even as he drops his tone to just the near side of suggestive. "Do you mean something you have in common with Amelia... or were you hoping you might have something in common with _me_?"

"Might I?" A slow, satisfied smile stretches across the other man's face. "Hope springs eternal." As if on a whim, he plucks a wine glass from the tray of a passing waiter and offers it to Napoleon (who has by now been staring into the bottom of an empty Martini for some time). The frisson of heat that passes between them as their fingertips meet on the stem leaves no doubt in Napoleon's mind that he's understood; it is magnified as Schneider—or rather, _Stephan_ —catches his gaze, taking long seconds to release his fingers.

_Oh, that it does_ , Napoleon thinks, allowing himself a moment, as he raises the glass to his lips, to reassess his first impressions of his new friend from this promising perspective. Now that he takes the time to appreciate the piercingly blue eyes, the pale blonde hair over darker roots, cut just a little longer than the American fashion—to say nothing of those cheekbones, or the curve of his lips under his secretive smile—this Stephan makes quite the picture. Oh, Napoleon could easily find an exception to his usual dedication to the fairer sex in this man.

"And in the unlikeliest of places," Napoleon agrees aloud. "Though you'll understand if I hope there hasn't been too much gossip getting around about my friend's... reputation as a host. She does pride herself on her discretion."

"I have yet to hear an unflattering report," Stephan replies, curtly. "But then, mixed gatherings have never been my preferred way of getting to know new people. For that, I prefer a more... intimate setting." The heated look he gives Napoleon leaves little ambiguity.

"Don't you think you're taking a bit of a chance here?" Napoleon teases, though he's enjoying this man's boldness. He can't remember the last time anyone came onto him so aggressively. "I mean, just because a man arrives on the arm of Miss Pembroke—you can only assume so much."

"Perhaps, but I have always had excellent instincts for these matters," Stephan tells him, airily. Then, with a slier edge, he adds, "And I had my eye on you from the moment you walked in."

"Really?" asks Napoleon, flattered despite himself.

"Well, I will admit that the time you spent attempting to catch Marianna's attention did make me wonder..." Stephan admits, his gaze drifting to Van Essen's secretary.

Napoleon laughs. "Well, there's a simple enough explanation there." Deliberately lowering his voice, he adds, "I think you underestimate just _how much_ I'd be willing to do to entice someone to give me that tour of the premises."

"Oh?" Stephan's smile now seems as pleased as it is sly. "Then allow me to oblige you. Unless you'd prefer to enjoy a little more of the party first?"

_Jackpot_ , thinks Napoleon. "My friend, I've had enough of this party to last me all night."

"How splendid." In one quick motion, Stephan empties his glass and discards it on the nearest table. "Then, if you'd follow me?"

The exits to the great hall are guarded by pairs of uniformed staff (none of whom, as Napoleon has already discovered, seem at all susceptible to his best attempts to bluff his way past). From Stephan, however, it takes barely more than a gesture, and not only is the way clear, but the door is held open for him as he strides through, Napoleon on his heels. The corridor beyond is hardly the sort of architectural marvel that 'Edgar Ramone' had longed to see, but after hours trapped in that hall, the illicit thrill of freedom is sweet indeed.

"Now, where to begin?" Stephan wonders aloud, casting an impish look at Napoleon over his shoulder. Selecting a door apparently at random, he says, "Here, I think."

Napoleon finds himself being presented with an open door, but in one moment of lingering suspicion, he hesitates. "Oh, after you," he counters, with all the charm at his disposal. His first impressions of this man are proving hard to overcome.

Stephan raises his eyebrows, but takes the invitation to lead the way. "Close the door behind you, will you?" he calls over his shoulder, as Napoleon follows.

The door closes with a click, but Napoleon turns back to find the space between them has evaporated, that Stephan has taken that moment of distraction and insinuated himself inside Napoleon's guard with disarming speed. Startled, he has just time to tense before an assault that shoves him back against the door, before Stephan's lips meet his own, tongue pressing for entrance as he leans into Napoleon's body. Thoroughly off-balance, barely managing to tamp down on reflexes trained to interpret proximity as a threat, Napoleon fervently hopes his racing heartbeat will be mistaken for excitement as opens his mouth to the kiss.

It's not the most auspicious start to something Napoleon had genuinely looked forward to—though if Stephan noted his reaction, he makes no sign. Caught at the tipping point between two very different instincts, Napoleon is still reeling mentally when it becomes apparent that his body has taken charge without his input, responding to Stephan's attention with a rush of arousal. It's been a long time since Napoleon last had the rare pleasure of a masculine form under his hands, and even as his higher faculties are trying to remember how this works with another man, Napoleon's arms have slid around Stephan's waist, his body relaxed around the welcome pressure of the thigh insinuating itself between his own. Stephan is slimmer than he'd appeared under his suit, the planes of his body both familiar and not. None of the few men Napoleon has found himself on such intimate terms with before had been so well-dressed as to arrive in a _suit_ (more than one, in fact, were wearing women's clothes at the time)—which only drives home the fact that this is something Napoleon has never done before. It makes him want to strip this man slowly, layer by layer, feeling the body beneath resolve itself under his hands.

Possibly, there's some object lesson on the wisdom of not over-thinking things buried in the experience. Napoleon cheerfully elects to consider the matter further _later_ —some time when he's not quite so distracted by the way Stephan is sucking on his tongue.

By the time Stephan does come up for air, the thought has gone out of his head again.

"You startled me," Napoleon admits. Perhaps he should have guessed that a man who'd go out of his way to approach a stranger like that at a party would be equally aggressive in private.

"You recovered quickly," Stephan counters, his eyes heavy-lidded with desire. They're pressed close enough that Napoleon can feel him breathing, the kiss-bruised pink of his mouth turned slightly upwards at the edges. Napoleon feels that he's passed some sort of test.

"You know, I was serious about wanting the tour," he adds, bemused, as Stephan's mouth resettles on his throat. It's true, both in and out of character. Napoleon's interest may not be so honest as Edgar Ramone's would be, but there is that wistful awareness of how much _more_ he'd have been able to enjoy this, knowing that his work of the evening was done.

" _After_ ," says Stephan, firmly, with a vehemence that Napoleon might have laughed at, had he not still been slightly out of breath.

"Not much for foreplay, are you?" Over Stephan's shoulder, Napoleon observes that he's been pinned up against the door of a modestly sized bedroom furnished with a double bed—most likely a guest room Stephan had plainly had no intention of going through the tour first.

"How else would you describe what we're doing now?" asks Stephan, unbuttoning Napoleon's shirt.

" _Au contraire_ —everything that passed between us from the moment I realised why you'd come to talk to me was foreplay," Napoleon argues, feeling giddy. His hands are moving half on automatic as he begins to undo Stephan's shirt in kind, but he keeps talking. "Anticipation _matures_. Pleasure delayed is pleasure squared, you know."

Stephan flicks a look up at Napoleon from where he's been following the progress of his fingers with his tongue. "So you thought perhaps we might wander the domain, discussing the exposure of the hallways and the like? How erotic."

"My friend, you underestimate how much I enjoy talking about architecture," Napoleon replies, though he can see that the cause of reordering Stephan's priorities is lost. "Why, I could have told you about the indelible Greek influences at the heart of the neoclassical style, the legacy of long Mediterranean summers, of columns which have their twin in pagan temples of antiquity..."

The breathy laugh that bursts from Stephan is both startled and startlingly honest, He shakes his head. "I'm beginning to believe you derive considerable arousal from the sound of your own voice," he says, though quite without venom.

"Well, it tends to come together better with a properly appreciative audience," Napoleon allows.

"I think I'm beginning to see that too," says Stephan, still teasing, even as his fingers slide into the back of Napoleon's waistband, his arms bracketing Napoleon's sides. "But I would hate to think you were interested in me only for my access to your Mediterranean columns."

_That_ is an accusation that can't be borne, not least for the guilty nugget of truth at the heart of it. "Well, we can't have that!" Pushing away from the door, Napoleon walks him backwards into the room. Stephan allows himself to be propelled back until the back of his knees hit the bed, willingly dropping his weight onto the mattress, though he blinks as Napoleon falls into a crouch on the floor at his feet.

"Let me show you what else I'm interested in," Napoleon breathes. Stephan's mouth twists into a smirk as Napoleon drags his thumbs along the inside of his thighs.

Stephan's cock, when Napoleon draws it out, is uncut and already half-hard—a mouth-watering sight. He's done this all of once in the years separating him from Korea, but if he might not pass for an expert, he can certainly make up the difference with enthusiasm—especially with Stephan's challenge still ringing in his ears.

The taste of him is salt and promise as Napoleon drags his mouth over the slick skin of the head. Under his attention, Stephan's erection twitches and hardens gratifyingly; Napoleon hears a rough exhalation as he drags his lips against the foreskin and hollows his cheeks, loving, the weight on his tongue. The intimacy of the connection leaves him acutely aware of every stifled movement, as Stephan fights the need to thrust upwards into the heat of his mouth, and Napoleon can hardly get enough of it.

A hand threads itself into the hair at the back of Napoleon's neck, not pulling or directing him, just holding on. As Stephan's breath becomes ragged, Napoleon finds himself wishing he could take him deeper still—that he'd mastered those advanced techniques one particular partner had demonstrated for him that evening after the USO drag show. There was always that particular pleasure in _knowing_ precisely what he's doing for a lover—techniques learned by example—that go straight to Napoleon's own cock with every whimper he elicits. Oh, but he'd forgotten just how much he _enjoyed_ having his mouth on another man.

If Stephan is eager to rush this to the main event, Napoleon will gladly oblige him. Perhaps this could work to his advantage—a sated and pliable Stephan might be less attentive to any small devices Napoleon might 'drop' as they wander the house. If he can bring Stephan off quickly, perhaps Napoleon can convince him to delay the matter of reciprocal pleasure until _after_ the tour. Embellish as he might in the name of his cover, Napoleon has been nothing but honest in espousing the merits of pleasure delayed. 

At length, however, it becomes apparent that now Stephan has Napoleon where he likes, he's in no rush at all. Even as Napoleon begins to feel the tension build in his body, Stephan's fingers tighten on the back of his neck, tugging him upwards. "Wait—enough."

Napoleon obediently pulls off in one last, slow drag. "Not to your liking?" he inquires—though he's teasing. How much Stephan had been enjoying his performance is in little doubt.

"Far from it," Stephan assures him, faintly flushed, his breathing still gratifyingly uneven. "But I would much prefer to come with you inside me." His lips stretch into another of those coy smiles. "Are you amenable?"

Napoleon's mouth goes a little dry. Does he want to... to _fuck_ this intriguing, beautiful man? Oh yes, he wants that. He can't, in that moment, think of anything he might like more.

"More than amenable," he purrs, running his hands up Stephan's thighs. "Very much more. How do you want it? Do you have, ah, some oil, or...?"

"To begin with, I want you naked. And yes, of course." Shimmying out of his own trousers and underwear, Stephan stretches across the bed with an agility that belies his own advanced state of arousal. From a drawer in the bedside table, he fishes a jar of what looks like vaseline.

Distracted by the view, Napoleon is still staring appreciatively after him when he rolls back over and raises an eyebrow. Duly reminded he'd just been given an instruction, he quickly shucks his own remaining clothing and joins Stephan on the bed.

"This would be easier if you roll over," he suggests, when Stephan shows no obvious inclination to do so.

"No," Stephan counters, "Like this. I want you where I can see you."

Leaning up against the headboard with a raw confidence that makes a promise of the welcoming spread of his legs, Stephan looks like an invitation to sin. The sight goes straight to Napoleon's cock, even as the words detour briefly through his stomach, where they fizzle into something exciting.

"To be honest," Napoleon admits, his mouth still dry, "I've never done it this way before."

"No?" Stephan tilts his head, his smile widening. "Well, you'll learn."

* * *

Ten minutes later, Napoleon names himself a convert.

The position lacks the comfort of the familiar—the fit of two like bodies, chest to back and skin to skin. But locked in the furrow of Stephan's thighs, the shivering planes of his chest laid out in hand's reach, Napoleon finds he cannot fault the man's preferences—not at all.

_I want you where I can see you_ , he'd said, but he might as well have put it, _I want you to see how I look with you inside me_ —for the former view can have nothing on Napoleon's. The way Stephan arches under his hands, baring his throat to the light each time Napoleon gets the angle just right—this is everything he's missed with men in the past. Sex is nothing new to Napoleon and has never lost its novelty, but the discovery of _new_ ways to enjoy his favourite pass-time—that's a rarer joy.

Stephan is even more demanding than he'd anticipated, and Napoleon is soon disabused of any illusions his position grants him license to set the pace. As their bodies find a rhythm, it's the most natural thing in the world to reach for the cock, straining back toward Stephan's belly, to guide him to completion—but Stephan intercepts his hand in mid-air, not even looking, and pins it to the bed. His fingers tighten as Napoleon's pace falters, pulling up with a jerk of Stephan's chin. Understanding, Napoleon eases his thrusts and leans down to meet Stephan's lips, trading light, breathless kisses until Stephan hums and shifts his hips impatiently, wanting him deeper—wanting it slower, savouring the minutia of each roll of Napoleon's hips. His meaning is writ large with every movement: there will be no finishing this until Stephan's had his fill.

Napoleon could get lost in this; he wants to know what it takes to sate this man, how long it would take to exhaust him. Awareness of how he's being _used_ for a virtual stranger's pleasure is no deterrent, but an illicit thrill that thrums along his spine (and isn't Napoleon using him, too—UNCLE using them both?) He shouldn't hope to be remembered—a liability, to be known, even by pseudonym—but Napoleon _wants_ heedlessly. To linger in the pleasant ache in Stephan's bones, after—to be the memory that leaves the next man lacking.

Wrapped in the circle of Stephan's legs, heels digging into Napoleon's back to urge him on, Napoleon will gladly make his case. Bringing his hands to the underside of Stephan's thighs for leverage, leaning into him as he picks up the pace—cautiously, he doesn't want to cause pain—but Stephan only moans this time, urging him on faster, head thrown back, fingers twisted in the sheets. Another beat, and now Stephan's hand is dragging Napoleon's to his shaft, half-lacing their fingers in demand that needs no translation. Napoleon groans, moving his hand with barely a rhythm left between them.

That isn't what does him in, though—it's the moment Stephan lowers his chin and catches his eye, for the first time in long minutes, and in the steely intent of his gaze, Napoleon is pinned, feels his own orgasm begin like an assault on his fine motor control that rushes through with shattering intensity. Through it all, the sight of Stephan watching him with that same steel, mouth open as he pants, jacking himself with a single-minded determination that promises he does not intend to miss a single moment of the wreck he's made of Napoleon before succumbing to the distraction of his own.

* * *

Napoleon wakes to find himself comfortable but disoriented, the edge of something he can't put his finger on nagging at the corners of his consciousness. The mattress beneath him slopes under the weight of a second body—rolling over, he finds Stephan dozing on the other pillow.

"Good morning," he says, at Napoleon's bleary-eyed look.

"Morning?" Napoleon echoes. His voice is an undignified rasp.

"More or less." Stephan shrugs lightly. Lit by the weak glow of one small bedside lamp, the window contributing only the cool, artificial glow of the patio lights, there's nothing in the ambience to suggest dawn is imminent. Nonetheless, some hours have obviously passed.

"I... fell asleep?" That... shouldn't have happened. Napoleon pokes hopelessly at his sleep-addled brain for any recollection of having insisted on completing his 'tour'—presumably before returning to this room for another round, and only thereafter to a well-earned nap. His sluggish memory returns nothing of the sort.

"Almost immediately, I'm afraid."

"I'm sorry," says Napoleon, "I usually have better manners," though privately, the true horror of this revelation goes well beyond the matter of post-coital etiquette. Rolling over and _falling asleep_ after seducing a mark isn't merely a beginner's mistake, it's behaviour entirely out of character for Napoleon—on the job or off. Something here is very wrong.

"I'll take it as a compliment," returns Stephan, treating Napoleon to another of those coy smiles, but Napoleon's mind is elsewhere—or trying to be. Sleep weighs heavily on his equilibrium, muddling a mind that had long ago mastered the art of waking in unfamiliar places with all possible speed. His every thought feels suspended between great wads of cotton wool. Why...

_I've been drugged_ , thinks Napoleon, going suddenly cold. The resulting adrenaline dump can do only so much to revive his ailing synapses, but it's all he has.

_The wine glass_ , is his next full thought. Stephan had actually _handed_ it to him. Why on earth had he been foolish enough to accept?

Barely has he finished the thought when he's second-guessing it. He'd barely sipped the wine—could that have been enough? They can't have given him a full dose, or he'd have passed out where he stood—whatever it was had been just enough to ease him out during the afterglow. Could one sip have done the job? It wasn't the only thing he'd drunk that night—so a half-dose might have been administered in any of a several different places. Which is the more likely?

This, Napoleon realises, is not a problem he has any hope of resolving while half-drugged and naked. If Stephan is playing innocent, then Napoleon's best hope is to play along—until he has his pants back on at least.

"What time is it?" he asks.

"Late enough to be early," Stephan replies. "I think the party over. I don't like to be inhospitable, but..."

"But I'd best sneak out while I have the chance?" Napoleon suggests. Both he and 'Edgar Ramone' can see that any hope of getting his tour is long past.

"That would probably be wise."

Steeling himself for the new challenge of balancing while still under the influence of whatever they'd given him, Napoleon rolls out of bed and pushes to his feet. The world sways and sloshes around him, and the complex task of reacquainting his lower half with his underwear and trousers requires him to sit back down on the bed while coordinating his feet.

By the time Napoleon has made his way to the chair over which he'd draped his shirt and jacket, he's starting to feel a little steadier. His wallet, lighter and cigarette box are still in the same pockets, as are a number of smaller devices secreted in hidden pockets in the lining. One would have to examine the lighter very carefully to discover the mechanism that allows it to fire two shots with reasonable precision, while the hidden compartment in his wallet would have to be ripped open (which it hasn't been) in order to reveal his UNCLE ID card. Even his cigarette box has been constructed to provide space for several real cigarettes. But the radio, which takes up the better part of that space, remains slightly too heavy for the cigarette box to be entirely convincing, and it would be immediately recognisable to any well-informed THRUSH underling with the sense to investigate. The hours Napoleon had been 'asleep' would have provided ample time.

Doing up his shoes, Napoleon watches Stephan out of the corner of his eye. Any moment, he half-expects to see a gun emerge from beneath the covers ( _And now, "Mr. Ramone" I have some friends who would be eager to meet you before you go._ ) Had Stephan been dressed, or as naked as Napoleon under the covers when he woke up? Had his accent had remained the same throughout their lovemaking last night? Napoleon's head throbs. Answers elude him.

In his pocket, Napoleon closes a hand around the solid weight of the lighter, his one remaining trump card. The smart play would be to use it now—to order Stephan out of bed, then have him escort Napoleon safely out of the building. The only problem is that a weapon so cunningly disguised makes for poor leverage, and if Stephan _does_ have a weapon of his own under his pillow, an ill-planned threat could lead somewhere... messy.

Disappointingly, the repossession of his pants has not much clarified Napoleon's problem.

What's the alternative? Less a plan than what he's doing already—playing dumb, and waiting to see how long he might be allowed to get away with it. Or, he supposes, he might hold on to the polite fiction that _someone else_ might have drugged his drink at the party, and that Stephan is no more than he seems. No spy worth his field clearance would ever rely on such a possibility.

Napoleon locks eyes with Stephan, still lounging in bed, with a smile that passes for 'well-fucked', but could mean just about anything. He considers his options.

Napoleon has always prided himself on his morning-after etiquette. He'd like to think, nonetheless, that the decision he makes next is the work of a seasoned spy, rather than that of an addled man confused into falling back on the comforting familiarity of social norms.

"Is there, ah, a back way out?" he hears himself ask.

"You'd best take the front," says Stephan. "I don't think it's so late that one last straggling guest will seem suspicious."

"Not even to Mrs. Van Essen?" All right. They are officially having this conversation.

Stephan looks suitably amused. "I think she's already made her mind up about you."

"I'd hate to jeopardise your job," says Napoleon. Later, he is sure he will have a perfectly good rationale for this protest. In the moment, he's running on a very confused automatic.

"I wouldn't worry," says Stephan, smiling. "She may have veto over house guests and expectations for the behaviour of her progeny, but she has less power over the hires of her husband, and he finds me very efficient."

_Oh, that you are_ , thinks Napoleon.

Possibly he stands there a little too long, as Stephan raises a brow at him. "You remember the way?"

"Not going to see me out?"

Stephan stretches and slides out of bed. He's wearing underwear, Napoleon notes, but nothing else. He sees Napoleon to the door of his room, then remains to watch Napoleon make his way back to the correct end of the corridor, dashing any lingering hopes he might have had of 'getting lost' on his way out.

The main hall is almost empty, but a servant intercepts him and shows him to what he recognises as Miss Pembroke's car, which has evidently been sent back for him, as the woman herself is nowhere in evidence.

It's only as the gate to the Van Essens' mansion begins to fade into the distance that it fully dawns on Napoleon just how effectively he's been played. He has indeed been allowed to leave—but with nothing to show for it but his suspicions, and whatever meagre evidence his bloodwork might reveal when he reports back to HQ. He has recovered no documents, placed no bugs, and seen nothing of the mansion interior. He cannot even be _completely_ sure that he's been made.

The only new intelligence Napoleon can hope to provide in the wake of his mission is that _if_ THRUSH had indeed planned to hold their next conference at the Van Essen mansion, they will now _almost_ certainly be moving it elsewhere. But that tiny, lingering doubt means that UNCLE will not be able to rule it out, and thus save themselves time and resources.

This is not a report Napoleon looks forward to making.

Distantly, it occurs to him that when he's next feeling more like himself, he may just have to be duly impressed. He has been quite _brilliantly_ outmanoeuvred.

(Probably.)

Idly, he wonders how often one gets to have sex like that in the banking industry, then feels properly foolish about that thought for the rest of the trip.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [on tumblr](http://rallamajoop.tumblr.com/), come pop by if you're interested. :)


End file.
